Disclaimer: Angel isn't mine. It belongs to Mutant Enemy and Joss Whedon. I'm just playing with the characters for a bit.

A/N: Here I am, supposed to be packing to move (again), and instead I'm writing another chapter for this monstrosity. Gah! Anyway, big thanks to YOUPIN, a.a.k.88, --J, kwangmablade, Childe of the Daywalker, your local dealer, angel-cordy, and Polia for dropping comments.

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"I will need the help of a she-creature. One with whom this mortal shared an emotional bond, the kind involved in mating. She will be the life-bringer to lure back the soul. I can restore the shell to functionality, but recalling the soul is beyond even my power. Odd, that a mortal will be able to do it."

--Illyria, chapter 2

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Jetlag was hell, Dawn Summers decided as she pulled her bag off the luggage carousel. There had to be a literal hell somewhere that consisted of nothing more than planes flying you across ten time zones and back again. Her brain really, really wanted to do the sleep-thing, but the LA sun was obnoxiously up and bright.

Annoyingly, Buffy didn't seem to be bothered by the time change. Her face was set into the same grim expression it'd been in since Angel had called. She hadn't even slept on the plane—just sat, drumming her fingers on the armrests of the seat. All of Dawn's attempts to start a conversation had been rebuffed, so she'd finally given up and stuck to her books. She had a couple on loan from the Watchers' library that she needed to finish. Giles had also instructed her to take detailed notes on everything she observed while in Los Angeles. He wanted to know everything that was going on with Angel and Spike and this Old One, Illyria, that Angel had mentioned on the phone. Personally, Dawn was feeling a little geeked at the chance to meet an Old One and not risk being squashed like a bug. And seeing Angel and Spike and Wesley again was cool too, even if two of the three were currently comatose and soulless. Oh, well—that's what they'd flown halfway around the world to fix, right?

There was just one little problem with this plan, as far as Dawn could see: Buffy had brought her boyfriend. "Couldn't you have made him stay in Rome?" Dawn hissed as she hitched her carryon farther up her shoulder.

Buffy glared at her. "He insisted on coming."

"Since when does that mean anything? You're the Slayer! If you don't want someone to come on a trip with you, then they don't come."

"Being the Slayer isn't being God, Dawn, and did you stop and think that maybe I want my boyfriend here to support me?"

"What am I? Chopped liver? And, besides, who do you need support against?"

"Hmm, let me think. Oh, maybe my evil ex and the new love of his life. Oh, and wait, what about the man who told me I didn't love him?"

Dawn gave her a look that she hoped conveyed how completely and totally stupid Buffy was being. Her sister ignored her, instead turning to give the Immortal a kiss on the cheek as he came up with the rest of their baggage on a little rolling cart thing.

"Do I need to summon a taxi?" he asked.

"No, Angel said he'd pick us up at the airport," Dawn said, heading for the doors.

Buffy hurried up beside her. "You talked to him?"

"Well, yeah—to tell him when our plane was coming in. I told him we'd just take a taxi to where he's staying, but he insisted on coming to get us." She stepped through the automatic doors and was hit by a blast of oppressively hot, exhaust-filled air.

"And here I'd forgotten all about the lovely California weather," Buffy muttered. "Well, what's he driving these days?"

Dawn lifted a hand to shield her eyes as she scanned the cars idling in the passenger pick-up area. Honestly, she'd forgotten to ask when she'd called…and surely that couldn't be him in the Notre Dame shirt, standing in direct sunlight in front of a beige minivan. Right? Because the Angel who'd dated Buffy had skulked in dark alleys and drove a black Plymouth (convertible because, deep down, they all knew he was slightly suicidal).

But the man in front of the van raised his hand in greeting, and she headed over. Human-Angel didn't look much different from vampire-Angel. Sure, he wasn't wearing black—the college t-shirt, jeans that reminded Dawn just what Buffy had seen in him originally, and a pair of white tennis shoes—but his hair still stuck up funny. It wouldn't be Angel, she decided as she let him hug her, if his hair wasn't gelled and spiky. Still, the body heat and the breathing thing were a bit disconcerting.

"You…you look great, Dawn," he said as he let her loose.

"And you look normal," she said, taking a step back and readjusting the strap on her shoulder. "Tell me this isn't your van." But he wasn't listening—his attention was focused on something behind her. Buffy, of course. She glanced back and saw her sister walking over, hand-in-hand with the Immortal.

"Buffy. Immortal," the former vampire greeted them flatly.

"Angel." Buffy's tone was equally pancake.

"Angel!" the Immortal obviously didn't understand the awkwardness of the situation.

"I take it you two know each other?" Dawn ventured, trying to alleviate some of the tension.

"We've met," Angel said as he took her bags from her and opened the side door of the van. "I didn't think you left Rome."

"Normally, no," the Immortal replied, "But I couldn't just let my pulchra femina travel all the way to the City of Angels without someone to keep her company."

"Funny, I thought that was Dawn's job."

Buffy was glaring stakes at him. Dawn just rolled her eyes and climbed into the van. Cordelia Chase was already seated on the middle bench, right behind the driver's seat. She nodded to her as she settled on the back bench next a good-looking black guy. "Hi," she greeted him, holding out her hand, "I'm Dawn."

"Charles Gunn," he introduced himself, giving her hand a good squeeze.

"You're a friend of Angel's?"

"We work together, usually." That didn't quite answer her question, but she had a feeling she'd stumbled upon a major sore spot. "You're the Slayer's sister?"

Dawn rolled her eyes again. "Unfortunately."

Cordelia leaned over the back of her seat and whispered, "So who's Mr. Hottie-pants glued to your sister's hip?"

"The Immortal," Dawn whispered back. "He's a real big deal back in Rome—everybody loves him."

"Except you?"

"He and Buffy had sex on my bed." Gunn made a weird snorting noise that might have been a disguised laugh, and Cordelia was smiling as she turned back around. "It's not funny! I have to sleep there."

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Hearing that Buffy was dating the Immortal was bad enough, Angel decided, but actually seeing them being a cooing, lovey-dovey couple made him want to gag. She's was putting on an act, he could tell. He could always tell with her.

She looked good though. Her hair was starting to get long again, and she was dressed in what he guessed was the height of Italian fashion, looking every inch a sophisticated European woman. Just looking at her made his heart ache a little for the guileless Sunnydale girl.

Then, Cordelia climbed out of the van and put her hand on his arm. "Oh, yeah, I nearly forgot—Cordy, this is the Immortal." She reached out her other hand to him, but instead of shaking it the Immortal (the sleaze) raised it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. For half a second, Angel was afraid she'd giggle or do something else to show that he'd managed to charm her with that little move, but Cordy just regarded him with the same cool detachment as before. It made him a little giddy. "This is Cordelia Chase, my girlfriend." Even as he said it, 'girlfriend' sounded like too weak a word for what he felt for her. "My love," he amended.

"Your…love," Buffy repeated flatly as Cordy looked over at him quizzically.

"My love," he repeated. Still not quite right, but closer. The four of them stood there for an awkward moment, looking at each other as if not quite sure what they were supposed to say. Angel clapped his hands together. "Well, as much fun as this is, why don't we head back to the Hyperion and see if Buffy can wake Spike up?"

The planned seating arrangement had put Buffy in the passenger seat with Cordy behind him, but since the Slayer had decided to bring the Immortal with her, they got the middle bench instead, and Cordy took shotgun. Why Gunn had come along, Angel still wasn't sure—the man had shown up at the hotel that morning looking alternately pissed off and glum. Angel had asked what was up and where Gwen was, but both those questions had only earned him dirty looks. He'd sulked in the backseat the whole way to the airport, not even cracking a single soccer mom joke when he first laid eyes on the van. At least now, Angel saw in the rearview mirror, he was pretending to smile as he chatted with Dawn.

Thanks to LA rush hour traffic, the sun was setting by the time they got back to the Hyperion. The lobby was dark, though, as they entered. "Connor?" he called. "We're back. Connor?" No answer. Angel took a step forward and stumbled over something. Looking down, he found a small cardboard had been left on the top step. It was addressed to him, care of Wolfram & Hart.

"What's that?" Cordy asked as she peered over his shoulder.

"I don't know," he admitted. "It's got the stink of Wolfram & Hart all over it."

"Don't open it," Gunn recommended. "We don't want none of the crap here anymore."

Angel turned the package over in his hands. The return address was written on the underside in a familiar feminine scrawl. "That's Fred's handwriting," he murmured, "And it came from her department at Wolfram & Hart."

"Let me see that." Cordy grabbed it out of his hands. "I don't sense anything evil coming from it," she said after a moment's investigation. "And it doesn't make noise when you shake it." She handed it back to Angel.

"I vote you open it." Everyone turned to stare at Dawn. "What? You're not going to find anything out unless you do."

"Girl has a point," Gunn added.

Taking a deep breath, Angel slid a finger under the edge of the brown parcel paper, breaking the seal. The paper covered a shoe box, and when he pulled it out, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Cordy bent to pick it up. "It's addressed to you," she said, handing it up to him, "And it's in Fred's handwriting."

Angel

I'm dying. You guys can tell me different all you like, but I'm not stupid. This thing that's infected me is hollowing me out, sucking me out of my own body like you'd suck the good parts of a crawfish out of the shell. I told Charles once that I'd never be a shell—not for anybody—and I meant it.

I think I've figured it out. How to stay, even if you can't find a way to save me. 'Course this letter's going to seem really silly when you do find a way and I'm alive and stuff and they still give this to you. If that's the case, then just shred this and tease me about it the next time you see me. But if it's not the case, then what I've enclosed in the package should help you bring me back.

Oh, and tell Wesley I'm sorry I ruined his dinner plans.

Love,

Fred

Angel swallowed and handed the letter to Cordy so she could read. They hadn't been able to save Fred. All her trust in them had been misplaced. They had found a way to stop Illyria before she completely burned away everything that had been Fred, but it had come down to letting Fred die or killing hundreds of thousands of innocent people. He'd made the call, and he still didn't know if it was the right one.

Silently, he opened the shoe box and looked at what she thought would save her. Lying in the box on a bed of packing peanuts was a ratty white stuffed rabbit with a pair of black spectacles perched on his nose. Confused, Angel lifted out of the box.

"Hey!" Gunn exclaimed, "That's Feigenbaum!"